


T-shirt

by audrarose



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audrarose/pseuds/audrarose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter visits Neal late at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	T-shirt

It's only 10:30, not _that_ late, especially not for Neal, so Peter isn't quite prepared when Neal opens the door to his apartment, obviously still half-asleep.

"Peter. Wow." Neal runs both hands through his hair like he's trying to tug it out, tug himself awake. "How... inconvenient of you."

Peter stares for a moment. Then he regroups. Arranges his face into a smile. "Well, now I can tell El I was right -- you _don't_ wake up looking like that."

Neal raises an eyebrow, then turns and walks into the apartment. "It was a long day. Someone made me file about four years worth of paperwork. I think I've actually been released now."

Peter follows him into the dimly lit space, knows he should say something in response but he doesn't trust his voice because what he said is true; Neal doesn't wake up perfect and remote, like he's on his way to some photo shoot. He wakes up... rumpled.

Mussed hair, sheet marks imprinted on his cheek. A soft-looking white t-shirt that could fit two of him, black cotton pajama pants hanging off his hips... everything about him is careless. Unfinished.

Touchable.

"I'm sorry?" Peter snaps his gaze up from miles-too-long cuffs falling over Neal's bare feet to the clean lines of his face, briefly revealed in the light of the refrigerator.

"I asked if you wanted a beer. Since you seem to, you know. Be here."

Peter clears his throat. "Oh, no. No, I'm good."

"Why?"

He pauses. "It's a work night."

"No, I mean why are you here?"

To see you, apparently. He decides to use the reason he left his house with instead.

"Couldn't stop thinking about the Meyers case. Wondered if you came up with anything new."

Neal shakes his head, suddenly looking unbearably weary. "Not since six."

Peter follows the line of Neal's almost-longing gaze over to the only lit space in the apartment, where a dim lamp burns next to the bed.

Neal's bed.

Just as warm and rumpled as Neal is, messy and soft. Inviting. Peter can imagine Neal lying there, sprawled out over zillion thread-count sheets, in his soft, rumpled clothes. Can imagine lying there with him. Pulling those clothes off of him.

"I woke you up," he says. His voice is rough.

Neal shrugs. Lifts the bottle of water he'd taken from the refrigerator and drinks, light from the city beyond the windows picking out the line of his throat as he swallows, the hollow under his collarbone. Peter follows that line, steps closer without meaning to do it.

"I should let you go back to bed."

In the darkness, Neal's eyes are wide and wary, with a dark smudge of lashes that casts shadows when he narrows them. His grin widens a little.

"You should come with me."

And Peter knows Neal doesn't mean it, not really, just looking for a reaction, but any control Peter had was gone when Neal opened the door. He moves in close and ignores Neal's hiss of surprise, twists his fingers into that too-big shirt and drags him in. Kisses him.

_Kisses_ him.

Neal barely moves, just tilts his head slightly, parts soft lips for Peter's tongue, but the lean, angular body in Peter's arms isn't soft at all, just bone and muscle strung tense as wire.

"Jesus, Caffrey, eat a sandwich once in awhile," Peter says against Neal's mouth, hands moving over Neal's back, sliding down to his hips.

Neal takes a harsh breath. "If you're -- if you're _playing_ with me --"

"That's exactly what I'm doing," Peter says, and somehow it's the right answer because Neal goes liquid in his arms, makes a sound in his throat that goes straight to Peter's cock and then Neal is kissing him this time, wet and open-mouthed, almost painfully intimate.

Peter can't think.

Not clearly, not anything beyond _skin_; he wants skin, because the slide of fabric over Neal's body is maddening, not nearly enough, so in one swift motion he pulls Neal's shirt off over his head.

Neal looks up at him in shock, hair a mess and mouth flushed dark in the low light, dark like his nipples, like the fine line of hair arrowing down beneath his navel. Peter should probably take a minute and just look; he's been taught to recognize and appreciate beauty, afterall, but right now he needs to _touch_. He needs to suck on Neal's kiss-bruised lips and put his hands all over Neal's skin, and really, that would be so much easier if they were on the bed.

They bump into things as they go, blind because Peter won't let Neal stop kissing him, and they find the bed almost by luck. Neal's sleep pants are as precariously loose as they seem, sliding down Neal's thighs with just a firm tug to pool on the floor and then Peter pushes Neal down, falls with him so he has Neal underneath him, pressed between his body and the bed.

"You're dressed," Neal says. Wary.

"You're not."

He whispers it into Neal's throat, shifts his hips and grinds down lightly, feels Neal's soft moan as much as he hears it.

Neal moves beneath him, restless. Frustrated. "Peter... _please_\--"

Peter thinks he might do anything at all if Neal asks him like this, voice wrecked and begging. It alarms him a little, so he kissses Neal to shut him up, fumbles at the buttons of his shirt. He moves his hand when Neal reaches up to help, quick, slender fingers moving too fast for Peter to follow.

"Take this off." Neal's fingers are shaking as much as his voice.

Peter kneels, shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and starts when Neal unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants. Peter stands briefly to pull them off, along with shoes, socks, briefs, everything; hands clumsy because he can't take his eyes off Neal, propped up on his elbows, tense and watchful.

His gaze lands on the anklet, jarring against the graceful lines of Neal's body and for a second Peter falters, almost asks if this is what Neal wants, too.

"You trying to torture me?" Neal says, the uncertain ghost of a smile flickering over his face.

"Is that what you want?"

Quick shake of his head, brows drawn down in concern. "No."

"Good." Peter forces himself to be more controlled this time and sinks down, spreads himself over Neal's body. "Because I don't think I could hurt you."

There's a shock of heated skin and lithe muscle and God, Neal's _mouth_ open against his shoulder -- it's almost too much to take; he's going to explode if Neal touches him, so he slides his hands up Neal's sides, pushes Neal's arms over his head and tangles their fingers together. His voice is shaking as he whispers into Neal's mouth.

"Even if you wanted me to."

Neal goes a little crazy then, from Peter's words or the way Peter's holding him down; rolls his hips so his cock slides against Peter's, hot and insistent. He kisses Peter, open and messy, sucks on Peter's tongue until Peter's gasping for air.

"Touch me, just fucking touch me - " Neal says, the words barely coherent, and Peter has to obey, has to run his hands over the curve of Neal's shoulders, the smooth lines of his chest, the hard jut of his hips. He bites kisses under Neal's jaw, his neck, finding places that make Neal squirm and gasp, and the whole time Neal is touching him, too.

It's too quick almost, too simple, but Peter has no patience for anything more complicated than his hand on Neal's cock, for Neal's clever, talented fingers on his, and then he's almost laughing because he's making Neal Caffrey come all over his hands.

"So fucking beautiful," he says, but Neal stops the laugh and the words, just bends at at the waist and swallows Peter down. Neal's mouth is hot and wet, pressure so unexpected and perfect that Peter loses himself completely, time and place and name, until all that's left is Neal.

Now it's Neal's turn to laugh, low and soft as he collapses back against the pillow, with a wry glance over at Peter until Peter is laughing, too.

"So," Neal says, still a little breathless. "You going to let me sleep, now?"

Peter closes his eyes, his smile wide. "For a little while, anyway."


End file.
